memories – S'amusing

She Loved My Poetry, I Think…

(Note: this first appeared in April 7, 24 and was republished, here, following a correction revision)

Not my poetry, in the sense that I wrote them. No, they belonged to real poets: Clemente Clarke Moore, Ernest Thayer, Robert W. Service, Hugh Antoine D’Arcy, Grantland Rice and Abraham Lincoln. I just memorized and recited them to her.

But she didn’t know, or care, who wrote the words. I think she just enjoyed the rhythmic sound that accompanied our steady pace. She never sighed or balked when I began each line, or repeated sections until I had it right.

The Night Before Christmas may have been her favorite. I’d recite it over and over and over until I couldn’t change the inflection points and it got boring, probably for both of us.

Spring came along and with it the start of a new baseball season. What could be more appropriate to memorize than Casey At The Bat. I did, a little bit a time as we walked along, side by side.

It was the All-Star game before I had it down verbatim and recited it ad nauseum. By the ‘dog days of Summer’, it was wearing thin on both of us. I sensed her boredom.

Following a short break, I picked up memorizing again and locked down Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address before the November 19th anniversary of the President’s iconic speech.

Lincoln, himself, may have delivered the speech in a quiet manner but each dramatic line found me delivering it with gusto. Neighbors probably thought it odd to see me talking and gesturing theatrically, only stopping to pee or sniff.

Memorizing poetry gave this Senior’s brain some very good exercise, I’m uncertain what it gave her, but she didn’t complain. Dogs are like that, they give you all the attention you want and don’t ask for much in return, just your love.

Over time, I managed to conquer The Cremation of Sam McGee, Alumnus Football and The Face On The Barroom Floor. She approved them all.

I still walk daily but since Daisy passed away this February, I’ve stopped with the poetry. Music accompanies me, now, on the same paths where we walked and talked. She’s deeply missed.

The Last Battle is a poem about a pet’s message to its guardian in its final days. The message is clear. The following is the opening stanza and the author is unknown but I like to think that our pets wrote it…

If it should be that I grow frail and weak
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then will you do what must be done,
For this — the last battle — can’t be won.
You will be sad I understand,
But don’t let grief then stay your hand,
For on this day, more than the rest,
Your love and friendship must stand the test.

Steve, 040724

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To pet lovers, everywhere.

There Was A Time

It’s autumn and in the western plains of New York State, along the shores of the Great Lake Ontario, Mother Nature is trying to decide to be warm or cold. The calendar will tell us what it’s supposed to do, but She will be the final arbiter.

September is done. October and November are beautiful months: family birthdays to be celebrated, holidays to enjoy, homage paid to soldier heroes and quiet remembrances of loved ones passed.

Leaves are falling. The front yard sugar maple, a full palette of colors one day, bares itself the next.

The Japanese maple sheds its leaves, leaving a stunning necklace of magentas and reds under its drip line.

If I’m lucky, the air will stay dry and the leaves will be light, easy to gather. If I’m very lucky, the wind will blow them away and shift the burden to a neighbor’s yard.

It’s a routine that repeats itself annually.

I remember a time when falling leaves meant afternoons of exhaustive running, jumping and disappearing into tall piles of those leaves that had been raked and gathered along sidewalk curbs of our ‘three decker’ houses in central Massachusetts. Childhood was the time for play.

I remember when residents burned the leaves in the streets to get rid of them. Smoke from the fires would fill the neighborhood, wrapping itself around houses, leaving a smelly calling card in its path. I would fall asleep in sheets saturated with the odor of burnt maples and oaks if those sheets happened to be hung outside to dry on leaf burning day.

Not anymore, mind you. The leaf pile jumping has been replaced by tablets and video games. And the leaf burning has gone the route of composting.

Life changes, we grow older, become serious. Nowadays, I see the piles of leaves and am reminded of those fun filled innocent days and for a brief moment I contemplate jumping. The thought passes, I come to my senses and leave it for the dog to enjoy.

Do you remember when ‘there was time’ and you enjoyed leaf jumping?

Steve (112423)

To Daisy (RIP)

Whistling: A Three Women ‘Melodrama’

Do you whistle?

The back room storage area of the downtown haberdashery was dimly lit and the old floor squeaked as I danced the long handle broom across the narrow hardwood boards, sweeping away the light dust to the rhythm of my high pitched whistling.

A ‘clean-up’ boy in a men’s clothier shop, owned and operated by a ‘quirky’ old couple who rode home in separate busses to assure the survival of at least one partner in the unlikely event of a fatal accident. You never forget your first job and the people who hired you.

It was a men’s speciality store. With neatly arranged merchandise under glass counters or on shelving behind those counters, to be presented by a salesperson, not self served, expertly dressed mannequins in window displays, and crank out awnings to protect those windows from harsh sunlight, this was an iconic men’s wear store in downtown Worcester, before the exodus of retailers to suburban shopping malls.

Not surprisingly, whistling while working was frowned upon, it detracted from the aura, the ambiance, the atmosphere of a high quality clothier.

I should have known better. I should have been more respectful. However, I was 16 and only working because my ‘old school’ father suggested that I was old enough to get a job, albeit a part time job.

More often than not, the best lessons learned are the harshest. Being dressed down by the owner wife, one half of the probable survivors, was a deserved embarrassment. It was the first time, but not the last, that I would be on the receiving end of a woman’s wrath.

I’ve enjoyed whistling since boyhood. I find it fun, relaxing and wildly entertaining. Wildly might be an exaggeration, but the elderly lady on the front porch swing of a house I passed on my daily route to high school found it so. “Young man, your whistling lifts my spirits”, she shouted from her post. I think she waited for my passing each day and I happily obliged her with a harmonious whistle.

My singing is terrible, so I’ve been told. And my whistling is shrill, as I’ve been reminded by the third woman in this story, the one I whistled at more than fifty years ago. She must have liked it then, because we’re still together. However, now I limit my singing and whistling to when I’m alone and can belt it out without contrarian commentary.

Yes, I find myself wildly entertaining during those times.

Let’s hear your best whistle.

Steve (102023)

Listen My Children…

I first wrote this last year but today is a good time to repost it.

Listen my children and you shall hear of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere

Twas the 18th of April, ‘75, hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year

As he said to his friend, “If the British march by land or sea from the town tonight, hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch of the North Church tower as a signal light.

One if by land, and two if by sea, and I on the opposite sure shall be ready to ride and to spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm for the country folk to be up and to arm” (Longfellow)

Miss Meehan, my 5th Grade teacher at Woodland Street School in Worcester, MA wrote this on the chalkboard and had the students memorize and recite it. I’ve never forgotten it. Of course, there’s lots more to the poem.

About 1981, on April 18th, I was driving along the New York State Thruway, Rte 90, at an excessive speed. Why so fast? Because I was reciting this poem out loud, caught up in a bit of patriotism. At least that was my story to the state trooper who commented, “I bet Paul wasn’t going this fast”, as he handed me the speeding citation.

I will never forget the poem, the officer, the patriotic deed by Paul and friends, nor Miss Meehan.

Steve

Happy Patriots Day to all Bay Staters today, as well as Boston Marathoners.

‘Fire In The Hole”: Male Bonding?

Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat! Bang! Bang! Ratatat…and on and on for the ‘longest brief moment’. And loud! Oh, was it loud!

The old man next door came out of his house as the police arrived. At the same time, my sister burst into my bedroom like a SWAT officer looking for the perps.

She found them, two perps, 16 and 21, my future brother-in-law, pending her inquisition, and me, quietly having a nervous laugh at the ruckus we caused. A few long strips of firecrackers tossed out the bedroom window into the neighbor’s yard on a hot summer night, and a sister’s wrath, can do that, make you nervous, and laugh.

“Sounded like gunfire”, the old man told the officers.

In 1963 shootings were extremely rare. No, this was just a case of old-fashion ‘male bonding*’, not to be confused with ‘boys will be boys’.

“Am I wrong”, as Seinfeld’s George Costanza would often ask

* male bonding or male friendship is the formation of close personal relationships, and patterns of friendship or cooperation between males. (Wikipedia)

Generally, male bonding occurs when there’s some common goal to be achieved by struggling together: surviving a challenge, winning a game, meeting a target, something that brings two or more men together in achieving and strengthening a relationship. Surviving the verbal blows of an enraged sister might be a good example.

Then, there’s the action of professional golfer, Tiger Woods, who made news this week when cameras caught him passing a female hygiene product to a fellow competitor whom he had just out driven, suggesting that his foe hit like a girl, weak. They were bonding, according to the apologetic Tiger.

Was it innocent? Probably. Funny? Not really, at least not for public consumption. ‘Male bonding’? No, it was crass, locker room stuff. Even the firecracker affair rose to a higher level.

As to that episode, I think the ‘perps’ learned a lesson in growing up. My future BIL and I did bond and had a good summer. My sister married him and he’s done well by her for 58 years.

What’s your take on Tiger’s behavior, and your favorite memory of bonding? Surely, you have one. All stories are welcome.

Steve (021923)

To my. sister & brother-in-law. you’ve ‘bonded’ well

Today, I Bid Farewell To An Old Friend…

It’s difficult saying goodbye to an old friend, a lifetime friend. I did that today, somberly and with complete sobriety.

We enjoyed decades of each other’s company: long walks over green fields, side treks into brush and woods, sidestepping water, back and forth into sandy patches. But today was a time to say goodbye.

Early on, I carried my friend on my back, slightly bent from the weight and mumbling, sometimes cursing, as we went along, not in anger but in frustration As I aged and carrying was too challenging, I pushed my friend in a cart. We were inseparable in sun, rain and wind.

We always seemed to end our walks on a good note, motivating us to return for more.

—————————

My dad gave me my first set of golf clubs, MacGregor Tourney irons and woods. I was 16. It was 1962.

We became inseparable: together on family golf outings, airplane rides to sales meetings and always in the car on business calls. This was the friend that I bid adieu in a rather unceremoniously way when I made a donation to second hand shop

I’m beginning a different stage of Life, the declutter stage, the new catchphrase for seniors of a certain ilk. Looking around the house, I realize there’s a potpourri of ‘stuff’ that I no longer use, will never use. Time to declutter.

But it’s hard to declutter an old friend.

One thing I won’t declutter is all the memories I have that center around golf and those special clubs. It’s not hard to close my eyes and enjoy a tsunami of good times golfing with friends, brothers and especially my dad.

I hope someone will spy these clubs at the second hand store, buy them at a give away price and start making their own memories.

As more decluttering continues, somebody is really going to love the button down dress shirts and brown wingtip shoes I’m donating. I’ll just never use them again.

What about you? Is decluttering in your plans?

Steve (021723)

Quotes on golf and decluttering

“Golf… is the infallible test. The man who can go into a patch of rough alone, with the knowledge that only God is watching him, and play his ball where it lies, is the man who will serve you faithfully and well.” – P.G. Wodehouse

“Golf is a good walk spoiled” – Mark Twain

“Out Of Clutter, Find Simplicity” – Albert Einstein

“Your Home Is Living Space – NOT Storage Space” – Unknown

Reading For a Straw: A ‘Eureka’ Moment

Sometimes, the simplest reward can motivate kids. Take the 1 cent Pixy Stix…

A Chrysler assembly plant and Green Giant packing plant were the chief employers in the small northern Illinois town where I began my working career fresh out of college, an elementary school teacher for five years before transitioning into a life long sales position.

I had 32 students at a time when classroom size was not a high priority, especially in this rural blue collar town. The work was hard, fun and challenging. It’s teaching!

In elementary school, you teach the gamut of subjects: math, social studies, language, handwriting and reading. Specialists visited weekly to teach art and music. There were no computers in the class, nor the school, nor anywhere except big, temperature controlled rooms in office buildings.

Lesson plans were followed, accordingly, as we covered ‘new’ math, old history and the wonders of science. But reading, and reading for pleasure, piqued the kids’ attention the most.

A time was set aside daily for reading aloud, students rested or doodled while listening to Tom Sawyer, Treasure Island, Charlottes Web, The Old Man and The Sea and others. The daily read was a hit, for the students and me.

But how could I motivate the kids to read more themselves and even stand up to talk about it? I found one answer by noticing the kids enjoying one of their favorite snacks, Pixy Stix, the sugary treat in a straw.

Pixy Stix* had been around for years. I loved them as a kid, myself. Not only popular but these treats were cool looking with their varied colors. And, they were cheap, a penny a straw. I bought a hundred to get started.

The plan, read a book and get a Pixy Stix. It was an instant hit. Yes, gimmicky, but there was more to it. And the results were profound. Every student read a book, two books, three books and more. Sure, the reading tapered as the year progressed, but the drop off was insignificant. And most surprising was the level of enthusiasm from some students who were lower achievers in the general subjects. I was ecstatic having this ‘Eureka’ moment.

Here’s how the project worked:

Select a book and show me
Fill out a book marker with title, author and student name
Report back to me upon completion and tell me a few things about the book
Give an oral report to the class (voluntarily)***
Staple the bookmark to the bulletin board display and select a Pixy Stix

I remember one student, in particular, who never raised his hand in class but gave the best oral reports of all students. Made my day!

My books are my ‘trophies’

Steve

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*From Your Dictionary: ‘Pixy Stix: A confectionery item in the form of a (non-edible) straw filled with sweet-and-sour powdered candy .

The Shovel (and me)

I grew up in New England, in a working class neighborhood of 3-decker houses, large multi layered structures with a family occupying each floor. My family had the first floor, and why not, it was ours. Renters took floors two and three. From my earliest recollections, the house was heated with coal. A coal shovel, or two, was always laying on the dirt floor of our cellar, between the furnace and the coal bin

The ‘coal man’ would drive his delivery truck along side a ground level window above the coal bin, and deliver the coal via a long chute from the truck, through the open window and into the bin.

It was my dad’s job to shovel the lumps of coal into the furnace, regularly, to keep a steady flow of heat into the house. The heavy steel shovel with upturned sides was the tool he used for the job. It was laborious.

I was still a youngster when dad converted our furnace from coal to oil, but the shovel still had a purpose. It became my tool of choice, my only choice actually, for shoveling snow. Never mind the weight of a big snow, the shovel, itself, was a man’s size tool, heavy, and using it to move snow was laborious.

Along came the light weight aluminum snow shovel, specifically designed for that job. What a blessing. Of course, aluminum isn’t as strong as steel and it strained under the weight of a blade full of snow, rivets loosened, the cutting edges bent* and the shovel became less stable. Snow removal, became frustrating, as well as laborious.

Ahhh, plastic. So many products once made of steel are now made with plastic because today’s resins used in plastic are super strong, resilient. The plastic shovel has proven to be very light weight and durable. I have two that I’ve used for years. They moved with me from house to house and do quite well at removing snow. Nevertheless, the very task of removing snow, itself, is still ever laborious.

As time passed and I could afford something more elaborate, my choice of snow removal tools and methods changed. I bought a snow blower, or thrower. It’s big, powerful and noisy. However, while it shortens the labor time, I’m still challenged with the physicality of operating this machine. It’s remains laborious.

This year, I splurged and hired a plow service. While he plows the driveway with his truck, often before the first light of day, I watch from my kitchen window, between the slats, coffee in hand, slippers on my feet, and dressed for indoors in flannel pajamas. I find it to be less laborious.

Oh, yes, I still use a shovel to even the edges. Easy!

Steve (srbottch.com). February 2021. *thank you, Liz!

For more fascinating shovel info, check out ‘wonkee donkee tools, an English website and it’s not laborious https://www.wonkeedonkeetools.co.uk/shovels/what-are-the-parts-of-a-shovel

To Adie, With Love…

A young lady will ‘meet’ her great grandfather for the first time, thanks to a small tin box of flies and a good story teller. She has the story teller, her grandmother, my sister, and soon will have the flies, a small metal box of fishing flies, tied by the skilled hands of her great grandfather, four generations earlier.

Imagine, a family heirloom, of sorts, being passed down, not to a daughter, nor a granddaughter, but to a great granddaughter. Not a fancy piece of furniture, nor a sparkling broach, but flies. From one long-passed outdoorsman to a young vibrant outdoors woman, three generations removed.

My dad was an avid fisherman who enjoyed making his own lures. He turned wood dowels into ‘plugs’* on a lathe, and strung eels for surf fishing in the rough waters off the duned beaches of Cape Cod. He tied flies, lures that mimicked real flies, to attract trout in the placid ponds populating the rural countryside of central Massachusetts. He was proficient, passionate and a perfectionist about both skills, making the lures and catching the fish.

I kept his tin of flies, and other lures, upon his passing, some 40 years ago, as a reminder of the man. But these feathered and fuzzy creations go back even further in time, at least twenty years prior to his death. Hunched over a folding metal table, squinting through bifocals balanced on the end of his nose, and surrounded with the tools of his ‘art’, he meticulously hand crafted faux bugs to the smallest detail.

Supplied with an array of brightly covered feathers, buck tails, various size hooks, a vise to hold them and thread to join all the components tightly together, he would produce stunning replicas of the local insects that he hoped would help him land the next ‘big one’. A reference book of flies always lay open next to him as he meticulously tied them to the exact specifications, as outlined.

This story isn’t about catching fish, though. It’s not about about tying flies, it’s about a man, his passion and preserving his love of the outdoors by gifting an ‘heirloom’. It’s about connecting with following generations to keep his story alive. And, it’s about love.

It’s very likely that if my dad was here today, then he, Adie and her dad would be at the closest fishing hole, enjoying the outdoors and each other’s company, maybe spinning yarns of ‘the one that got away’.

“Adie, I want you to have these flies. Use them to catch the big one!”

Love,

Great Grandpa Bottcher

Steve (srbottch.com)

February 2021

To Adie and avid young outdoors lovers, everywhere. ‘Keep a tight line’ and keep making memories.

And, to June, my big sister, Adie’s grandma

*Plug (Swimming Plug) – A hard plastic or wood artificial lure that is usually cast and retrieved or sometimes trolled.

Never Park In Front of A Lighthouse: A Father’s Lesson

Beavertail Lighthouse*, Jamestown, Rhode Island (USA)

Footnote: as background for this story, I read this year that the US government was removing this lighthouse from its inventory. People can bid for it. a nonprofit likely will get preference. Now, let your imagination take over and enjoy this personal story…

Jamestown Island, Rhode Island was a favorite destination for our weekend fishing getaways. Dad and I and a friend of mine would pack our Chevy station wagon with sleeping bags, cooking gear and tackle for an outdoor excursion that every fishing enthusiast would love, especially kids. I was a lucky son. And Friday was our getaway day.

The boxlike wagon held everything in an orderly fashion. This precursor of the minivan/SUV, our Chevy allowed the back seat to be folded down, creating a spacious interior that accommodated a wood frame built to hold a platform as long and wide as the open space. This was our weekend ‘home’.

My dad and friend, both big bodies, slept on top while I squeezed my lanky adolescent body underneath, pressed against our supplies and equipment that filled the space next to me. Any overflow gear was stored in our trailered boat. Sleeping on one’s back was the best option due to space limitations. The flatter we could be, the better.

While driving to Jamestown, I would lay belly down atop the platform bed, head resting on my crossed arms, looking straight out the windshield, not a safe nor secure position, for certain. A sudden stop and forward slide was problematic and any hotdogs I had carefully balanced spilled onto the front seat, condiments and all.

Jamestown, itself, was fascinating and mysterious with its variety of fish and other sea creatures: striped bass, blues, mackerels, flounder, tautog, conga eels, and blue crabs. We caught them all, or tried.

Stately homes lined the shoreline. A ghostly one, long since deserted, stood decaying among the offshore rocks. And two gigantic car ferries crisscrossed Narragansett Bay between Jamestown and Newport, adding to the seductive nature of the island.

The end of the island sloped downward into the Atlantic. ‘Beavertail’ described its outline perfectly. And standing post above the rocks, looking out at the wide open sea, was the historic Beavertail Light House with its far reaching beacon and mighty horn, alerting incoming ships of the dangerous promontory.

My dad was always teaching us with tidbits of information or observations to enrich our young minds, as dads often do. Sometimes, lessons came with real life examples thati left indelible marks in our memories, like paying attention to details. Missing or foolishly ignoring the warning sign on the lighthouse wall is one lesson I’ll never forget.

“DO NOT PARK IN FRONT OF LIGHTHOUSE HORN”

To this day, I still believe that he parked there for a purpose…

Lighthouse horns are LOUD!

Glad I wasn’t holding a frothy root beer🥤.

Steve (December 2021)

* They are landmarks: The Beavertail Lighthouse and the Watch Hill Lighthouse, both are in Rhode Island. Now, the U.S. Coast Guard is giving up ownership

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